


Aftermath: Return to Winterfell

by ScarletDestiny



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU where Winterfell fell, Arya goes searching, Arya needs a hug, F/M, Nymeria is amazing, Wights everywhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-23 00:35:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21311215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletDestiny/pseuds/ScarletDestiny
Summary: Arya returns to Winterfell to search for survivors after the Night King was victorious at the Battle of Winterfell.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters
Comments: 2
Kudos: 49





	Aftermath: Return to Winterfell

Bitter wind cut into Arya’s skin as she strained her eyes to see in the darkness, searching for any glimmer of light as she carefully picked her way through the Godswood near Winterfell. She knew it would have been far safer to stay away from this place, to put as much distance between herself and her old home as possible. Yet, she could not ignore the sense of need that drew her back. 

Wights ambled around, some more alert than their brethren. It was these Arya watched out for the most, as ordinary wights were relatively easy to slip past. Her boots glided over the deep snow rifts, hardly leaving a trace. Brienne had offered to accompany her to Winterfell, but Arya did not want to endanger the life of anyone else. Besides, she felt more comfortable on her own, knowing her training from the Faceless Ones would see her past the undead wandering the woods. Looking out for another living soul would have split her focus. 

She had split from Brienne at the crossroads, knowing the knight would await her return there. Arya had left her with clear conditions that if she was not back within the day that Brienne assume the last Stark had fallen and escape to the remaining survivors. They would need a new leader if Arya did not return.

It was a foolhardy mission, sneaking back into Winterfell. But the thought nagged at her, waking her in a cold sweat during the night, that she had left those she loved behind. Whether they had somehow survived or been turned could not be determined, yet Arya craved the answer. After promising Gendry in a dream that she would return to find him, she had been unable to shake the thought. And so it was that she found herself back in her childhood home, this time knowing full well she might meet her end. There were only so many times one could say ‘no’ to the god of death.

As she slipped through the Godswood and made her way to the outer wall surrounding Winterfell, she checked each wight she passed, hoping she did not recognize one as a family member. So far, all the poor souls had been clothed in rags and the battered remains of armor, marking them to be soldiers and villagers. Hope clawed at her heart, but she squelched it, afraid it would make her falter. There was little room for hope in a world torn apart by chaos.

Nearing Winterfell, she slowed, moving from the cover of the treeline to a thicket near an old servants’ entrance. It had been anyway, before the wall had crumbled during the battle of Winterfell - now a large gap in the fortress’ outerwall provided an easy way inside. Having seen no sign of the Night King being anywhere close to Winterfell, Arya felt a bit more at ease, though knew she could not let her guard down even for a moment if she wanted to live.

Seeing only a few wights near the wall, she kept an eye on them as she slowly climbed her way up the rubble, passing through to the courtyard beyond. Flashes of memory passed before her eyes, but she quickly shoved them aside, focusing on the task at hand. Winter had fully come, and summer memories had no home in the days of death. 

Most of the undead had moved from the place, seeking out living creatures to contaminate and kill. Still, every creak of a branch, every whisper of wind swirling through the pillars caught her attention and caused her heart to race in fear. 

“Fear cuts deeper than a sword,” she mumbled to herself, attempting to calm her nerves. 

Crossing the courtyard, she paused a moment, gazing solemnly at the Stark banner lying rumbled and ruined on the ground. A chill went up her spine at the ominous sight. It wasn’t right. The Starks survived, beat the odds. It was what her family had always done, no matter how many trials had been set against them. And yet...fear told her that the days of the Starks had passed. 

Sansa was nowhere to be found, and Arya dearly hoped she would not find her wandering Winterfell, eyes blue as ice. To drive a Valyrian steel dagger into her sister’s heart would cut away any hope Arya currently held on to. Bran - she had witnessed falling before the Night King. She had been powerless to stop the attack, but had almost tried regardless until a stern gaze from her brother sent her searching for any survivors. She had not seen the sword of ice that pierced Jon’s heart, but knew nothing of her brother remained. The Night King had made certain of that.

Stealthily, she made her way to the entrance to the crypts, guessing that any clues to survivors’ whereabouts would be found down there. Though there was originally only the one entrance and exit, she knew desperate times often led people to create ways of escape where they previously had not existed. She hoped this was the case now, and she was not merely walking into a tomb.

Wary of lighting a torch, Arya relied on her eyesight in the dark, her knowledge of the passageways, and her touch of skin on stone to lead her in the correct direction. Light would only attract any nearby wights. Creeping her way down the stairway, she sidestepped a few corpses who, for reasons unknown, had not been raised. Some were missing limbs, others had sizable gaps in their heads. She quickly averted her eyes and continued down the ancient stairs.

Nothing moved in the darkness. The crypts were eerily silent, not even the scurrying patter of rats broke through the suffocating stillness of the tomb. And a tomb it was. Caskets had been torn asunder by the dead rising; bodies piled up in dusty corners, untouched by the icy blue of many who had fallen. Though she wished to look away, avert her eyes from the destruction and death, Arya forced herself to look upon every corpse, hoping against hope she would not discover Sansa or Gendry among them.

Though it had been a few weeks since the ill-fated battle, the bodies retained their fresh wounds, seeming as though they had been slain only moments ago. Arya shuddered at the sight. Clenching her left hand around Needle’s handle, she breathed shallow breaths, attempting to keep herself calm and focused. This was not the time nor place to dwell on what had been lost. 

Quickly, knowing wights could return at any moment, she picked her way through the crypts, examining bodies as she went. None of them turned out to be those she sought. Both a blessing and a curse, she decided, for now hope latched onto her heart once more. She was about to turn around and make her way back towards the entrance when she noticed a sizable gap in the far wall, as though someone had tunneled from the crypts up to the surface. Cautiously, she moved forward to examine the hole. 

A sliver of moonlight broke through the rubble as she made her way through the bits of stone. Scrambling the last few feet as rock shifted beneath her boots, Arya soon found herself standing outside Winterfell gazing around at the dead trees covered in thick tendrils of ice. A sudden rustle in the trees froze her in her tracks. Movement almost imperceptible, she slowly freed Needle from its sheath, bracing herself for an attack.

A flash of grey off to her right caused her to spin on the balls of her feet, Needle raised and prepared to strike. She gasped audibly in surprise, unable to stop the sound from breaking the eerie silence. 

“Nymeria?” she whispered, her breath turning to mist in the cold air. 

Crouched before her was the unmistakable hulking form of a grown direwolf, familiar eyes piercing Arya, holding her in place by gaze alone. A sudden rush of air caused her to cry out, falling to the ground as Nymeria leaped over her prone form, a feral growl issuing from the wolf’s throat. Pushing herself up, Arya jumped to her feet, eyes searching wildly for an enemy. A woman with thin black hair lay dead under Nymeria’s front paws. 

A wight, Arya realized with dread. One she had been too distracted to sense. 

Nymeria turned, blood dripping from her muzzle. Arya, not entirely certain how to respond, remained in place, hoping there was still some recognition in her direwolf’s eyes. 

“I told you I was coming home,” she whispered, voice low so as not to draw unwanted attention. “Did you follow me?” It had been weeks since her encounter with Nymeria further north, but Arya couldn’t brush away the feeling that perhaps she was no longer as alone as she feared. 

Nymeria raised her head, growl dying in her throat. Slowly, she padded across the snow until she stood directly in front of Arya. Reaching out a hand, Arya ran her fingers through the soft fur at the side of Nymeria’s muzzle, not caring that she touched blood. 

“We’re two wolves alone in the world, aren’t we?” And yet, for the first time since the battle of Winterfell, Arya felt her heart soar. “We’re going to make them pay for this,” she promised. “The Night King will fall.” 

Striding off back into the woods, Arya decided that though she had not yet found a trace of her sister or her love, that she had all she needed to continue the fight. To hope for a better future. One where the world knew summer again.

A Girl and her wolf against the world.

  
  



End file.
